Same Old, Same Old
by ImNotYourDate
Summary: "He wasn't running for the sake of it (who does that at three in the morning?), he wasn't late to a meeting, he wasn't scared or anything like that and he wasn't being chased, for that matter. On the contrary." Post Reichenbach. John, Sherlock and the wholeshebang. Not slash...yet. Maybe. Who knows. Rated T because in medio stat virtus.
1. Chapter 1

A woman looked outside of a window, alerted by the clanging sound of bins getting knocked over on the street, followed by shouts and footsteps echoing through the empty alleys. "Don't call the police, get inside!", her husband said. "It's three in the morning, it's probably some wanker getting pissed".  
The noises kept getting fainter and fainter, until they were just a memory in the woman's head, but someone – a man – kept running nevertheless: a pang in his chest as his heart beat wildly and pulsed in his ears; the drizzle didn't help, the pavement was slippery and water blended with the sweat trickling down his forehead.

He wasn't running for the sake of it (who does that at three in the morning?), he wasn't late to a meeting, he wasn't scared or anything like that and he wasn't being chased, for that matter. On the contrary.  
You could call him a vigilante, if you want, but he'd probably glare at you with one of his reproaching looks: he didn't like that word, in his mind it was always linked to some loser who runs around town with a cape fluttering around his neck and hand-stitched by his grandmother, following random people and getting restraining orders.  
No, he wasn't like that, he didn't even do that on a daily basis, it just happened some weeks ago for the first time: you see a man climbing out of a window with a packed shoulder bag in the middle of the night and what do you think? _Reverse Santa_? Yes, probably, but that's what normal people call "a robbery", especially if you see said man running right after touching the ground. That's a dead giveaway.  
And if you're a sane person, if you put your well-being before some stolen jewelry, then you call the police: you give them your name, you tell them what you saw and you go to sleep content and happy to have helped someone.  
But we're not talking about a normal person here, we're talking about someone who saw this and ran after the criminal: he chased him for a few blocks, before tackling him down and tying him up at a lamppost with his belt.  
And he loved it. Actually, more than that, he felt alive, dynamic, he felt his blood running through his veins and his lungs expand with air; every inch of his skin was responsive, every nerve in his body was sending inputs to his brain that could process only one thought: _again_.

This time, the one with the bins and the rain and the curses muttered under his breath, this time was his eleventh. It happened before, usually for low rated crime (he's not a superhero, for God's sake), sometimes he just stopped some punks from beating up a kid for a couple of pounds, other times he followed people with suspicious behaviours but nothing like a good old-fashioned chase.  
He turned a corner and saw the outline of the man he was following, running under the dim lights of an alley somewhere near Edgware Road: he felt his phone vibrating in his pocket and the weight of his gun in the back one.  
It was a cold winter night and a strangely silent one, so after a while his ears were able to discern their rhythm, to make out the sound of his soles on the ground and the one of his opponent. It comforted him in a strange way, made him feel like he had the upper hand, so when he heard the sound of a third stride getting closer, he panicked, stopped and turned around, losing sight of the target for a moment: behind him only darkness and flickering lights.  
It was just a matter of seconds, and when he started running again he finally saw someone getting closer to him.

_Shit_.

"Shit" was all his brain could muster. Did he stop? No, he did not, because in that moment he thought it couldn't get any better than that: his heart was thumping in his temples, his legs regained strength and a smirk appeared on his face. That was what he wanted, what he needed to get through his boring life, to go to bed at night, lie down beside his fiancée and think "I'm okay with this".  
He reached behind him and placed a hand on his gun as the stranger got closer to him, running just as fast and just as determined to reach him.

_Was this the guy I was following? Did he just turn while I was distracted and decided that attack is the better defence?_

He mumbled something and prepared himself for the last couple of steps but as the man stopped before him he froze: he held himself against the wall as the gun fell on the ground. Their ragged breathing filled up the air and the man in front of him slowly pulled down his hoodie.

"J…John?"  
"…Sherlock?"

* * *

**A/N: I don't know, I had this idea on how the next season should start and here I am. Don't really know where this is going. We'll see! By the way, this is not beta'd, so you'll have to be patient with me. **


	2. Just pretend, okay?

There's no easy way to describe this. Your best friend basically died in front of you and suddenly, during one of your "vigilante" night, he was there. Alive, breathing, running. Talking._ To you_. And what was the first thing that popped up in your mind?

_I've never seen him dressed like this._

Of course, right? The last time you saw him he was in a pool of his own – was it, really? – blood and two years later he's standing a couple of steps away from you and then you said it, you said it out loud because you're an idiot. Your best friend was alive and you blurted out the first thing your mind came up with.

"That's an unusual outfit for you".

And it was, it definitely was: an oversized hoodie, worn out jeans, beard and red…red hair?  
John was surprised he even recognized him like this, but then again, he could spot those eyes everywhere.

"Yes, that's why it's called 'disguise', John".

_John_. Hearing his deep, warm and entrancing voice that resounded in the empty alley, his name on his lips once again, that was almost overwhelming. The doctor felt dizzy and when the walls started moving he closed his eyes.

"Are you alright? Are you going to swoon like a Victorian woman?"

The sarcasm in Sherlock's voice was the last straw. How dare he? Who does he think he is? You can't fake your own death, come back alive after two years and expect to use sarcasm as nothing ever happened!

"No. No, you bloody wanker, I don't care if you're using sarcasm because you don't know how to deal with this, I'm not going to stand here and take your insults like I've always did!"

John froze again, his index finger still pointed at him in accusation, while his eyes met Sherlock's: guilt.  
For the first time he saw guilt on the detective's face, he saw something that resembled sadness and pain.

"I can't deal with this".

John turned and strode away: his hands clenched into fists at his side, his arms swayed in rhythm with his angry pace, a stricken look on his face that Sherlock couldn't see. The next thing he felt was the detective's fingers wrapped around his wrist, his other arm around his waist as Sherlock spun John back against the wall.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock placed one hand on John's mouth, shushing him, before whispering in his ear.

"Don't move, don't speak, you can be mad at me later, now shut up".

John muffled voice filled the air and Sherlock tightened his grip around his jaw.

"Shut. Up! There's the backdoor of a restaurant a few feet from here. We have to be quick and silent, do you understand me?"

The doctor nodded; Sherlock opened his mouth again but before he could explain to him what was going on a gunshot shattered the silence of the night and they both gripped at each other, sharing a look of fear. Sherlock and John crouch down and started running toward a safe place while the bullets kept coming at them: once outside the door the detective looked behind him for a moment and John waved his hands yelling "GO! GO!".  
In a second, they found themselves in the kitchen of a Chinese restaurant, the waiters and cooks staring at them and waiting for an explanation.

"Er…sorry, wrong door. We'll see ourselves out!".

John muttered embarrassed as he made his way between stoves and pans hanging in mid-air, while Sherlock followed him. They ran towards the exit and didn't stop once outside on the street: Sherlock led the way and when they heard the screeching of a car approaching them, he grabbed John's arm and pushed him inside a crowded pub, then the detective shouldered his way to a fairly secluded corner.

"Take off your coat and that ludicrous sweater".

John tried to rebut but yes, it was an awful sweater, he had to admit to himself; he tugged his shirt of his trousers and Sherlock took off his hoodie, showing a stained t-shirt underneath.

"Care to explain?"  
"The man you were following…Moriarty's"  
"I'm…sorry, what?"

They sat down and the detective kept looking around him, mapping out the place and scanning the people around them, looking for an easy escape.

"There's no time for that"  
"But I saw him climbing out a window, I thought he was…a regular, plain and boring robber?  
"Well, you thought wrong, as usual"

John pressed his lips together and breathed heavily trough his nose; Sherlock realized what he said and gave the table a little punch.

"Sorry, sorry. You know what I meant"  
"No, Sherlock, I actually don't"

Guilt on his face, again. Sherlock didn't have time to reply when a couple of men burst the door open and the owner yelled at them. The detective immediately turned to John and moved closer, his faces only a couple of inches apart while he forced the doctor to move, sliding on the bench, cornering him.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Sherlock held himself against the wall with one hand, the other wrapped around John's neck; he tilted his head and whispered.

"We have to pretend to kiss"  
"WHAT?"  
"Lower your voice, you idiot, move your head to the side and stay there, we don't actually have to do anything!".

Sherlock spoke between his teeth, his jaw clenched as the hand behind John's head tried to guide him into place. John gave up, almost subconsciously, but that didn't mean he couldn't go on with his rant.

"I swear to God Sherlock, if something happens…Jesus Christ, you come back to life and I found myself in these kind of situations again, I'm starting to think th-"  
"Would you please stay still and shut up?"

The two men approached the counter and showed the owner fake police badges together with Sherlock's photos, while the latter moved closer and closer to John's face.

"I promise, I will explain everything, I'll apologize properly for what I did, but for now, please, just pretend, okay?"

John nodded and slowly ran his hand through his friend's hair: Sherlock eyes widened at him and the doctor snorted.

"If we have to pretend, we have to do this properly"

The two men started walking around the place, and Sherlock slid closer toward John.

"I'm sorry. I really am. In my defense, I didn't expect to find you here"  
"Well…yes, I give you that. But not the other thing"

They stared at each other for what felt like ages: John swallowed and Sherlock licked his lips.

"I have a perfectly reasonable explanation"  
"Can't wait to hear it"

The younger man scanned his best friend's face for sarcasm but found only sorrow and hope; by the time they telepathically decided that wasn't the best time for arguing, they heard the men's voice getting closer. John slid his other hand through Sherlock's hair and tilted his head some more, giving the impression to have deepened the kiss. You know, a really private moment you shouldn't disturb? Strangely enough, it worked and when they saw the two men walking towards the car, Sherlock and John parted and cleared their throats.

They both stayed silent for a while, there was no need to say that they should wait before dashing off, it wasn't their first time. But dashing off where, exactly? What now? John wasn't alone, he was in a relationship, a serious one, a happy one, a meaningful, peaceful, uneventful, boring, relationship.  
That escalated quickly in the doctor's mind, but still, he couldn't just forget about it, act like he was single again, he couldn't be careless and selfish, he didn't have time to-

"Do you have time?"  
"Yes"  
"Baker Street then"

* * *

**A/N: Tell me what you think, it helps A LOT. I seriously don't know where this is going. Again, not beta'ed, stupid mistakes and grammar horrors may occur. Also, I'm neither british nor american, did I mention that? This isn't my first language so, you know, bear with me :)**


End file.
